(You know —
When my mind does nothing,
but grind in monotonous repetition:
caught in fast forward
And then stuck in slow motion.
The well-worn refrain,
warbles and warps and cries in dismay —
Yes, those days.
The dream is long since dead.
But some inner, vestigial, completely obtuse part
Clings . . .
trudging onward through hopeful reverie,
rather like a head keeps talking
even after the guillotine separates it from the tie to reality.
So, I wonder . . .
Is the bittersweet make-believe
evenly divided? Or like so much of what went before,
does it just sit quite firmly at only one door?
How long before
that what is locked away
will stay that way,